


Muffins at 6 a.m.

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dubious Consent, Fix-It, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur opens the door to low tapping, he knows immediately what awaits him. Merlin looks even worse than Arthur's expected though—he’s pale and shaking, his eyes full of pain and pupils blown wide. <i>Fuck</i>, Arthur thinks. It hasn’t even been two weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muffins at 6 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Dub-con boarderlining on non-con of a magic-made-them-do-it variety, fuck-or-die curse, mentions of self-harming, self-hate, not enough lube
> 
> Notes: Enormous thanks to sonsofsilly for betaing!
> 
> Written for Tavern Tales - theme Quickies, Frantic Gropes, Desperate Times

“Muffins at 6 a.m.”

 

When Arthur opens the door to low tapping, he knows immediately what awaits him. Merlin looks even worse than Arthur's expected though—he’s pale and shaking, his eyes full of pain and pupils blown wide. _Fuck_ , Arthur thinks. It hasn’t even been two weeks.

Merlin doesn't say anything, just slips in with his jaw clenched and eyes downcast. Arthur can see a bruise on his cheek and he can bet there are moon-like angry indents on the insides of Merlin's palms. He reaches out and runs his fingers gently over Merlin's scalp, feeling for bumps and scratches, and winces when he finds a fresh one. Merlin flinches away from the touch but doesn’t move his feet.

"Why didn't you come at once?" Arthur hooks his fingers in Merlin's hair and tugs gently to make him look up.

Merlin doesn't even have it in him to glare or make excuses, he just stands there in the middle of Arthur’s hallway, so petulant and _defeated_ , and that makes Arthur so angry, so impossibly angry he wants to slap Merlin in the face and drag him by his hair to the bed. What's even more unnerving is that at this point Merlin would probably let him.

Feeling off and shaky from the anger building up inside of him—the helpless rage at Merlin, at the curse that makes them do this, at the world that allows people who used to have so much love to hate each other—Arthur tugs harder on Merlin's hair and brings his lips to Merlin's ear.

"I forbid..." He takes a breath. "I forbid you to hurt yourself.” He runs his fingers over the bruise on Merlin’s cheek. “Next time you will get your arse here the moment you feel it's coming." And when Merlin doesn't answer, just stays there trembling under Arthur's touch, with his mouth slightly open and his teeth clinking, Arthur moves his hand back to tangle his fingers in Merlin’s hair and twists them until Merlin whimpers.

"Promise me, Merlin."

"Yeah." Merlin manages, wrapping his ice-cold fingers around Arthur's wrist, trying to ease Arthur's grip. "I promise."

"Get on the bed." Arthur pushes Merlin towards the bedroom, trying to breathe in and out normally and think of something arousing, but all he sees is Merlin all disheveled and clingy as he grabs Arthur's clothes, mouthing, "Please, please, I need it. Please, Arthur, please."

Arthur closes his eyes and thinks of Merlin's long limbs and tight little hole. But his cock is still soft, and he feels cold and detached, stressed-out like before an exam. He wants Merlin—he's always desired him, even before they got all tangled up with this curse—but he wants Merlin smiling and playful, happy and loud and enjoying sex, not begging for it because his pain is unbearable.

Merlin's fingernails are broken and torn, and somehow this is the only thing Arthur can focus on when Merlin brings his legs up to present his hole for Arthur, who swallows and averts his gaze. Merlin reaches to tug on Arthur's sleeve.

"Give it to me," he says through clenched teeth, trembling from the fever. "Arthur." And then his voice breaks and he’s sobbing all of a sudden, covering his mouth with the back of his palm. "Please."

Arthur unbuttons and drops his jeans and boxer briefs, stepping out of them in silence, then he tugs on his cock, once, twice, and again, and again, with fierce, angry fast strokes in the hope of getting hard. But he's still only halfway there and, fuck, he can't. He just can't do this. He can see the pain written across Merlin’s delicate features—and Arthur wants to sob too, because this is what's their time together has become.

Merlin controls himself and sits up, batting Arthur's hand away. His mouth is hot like his tears, hot like the inside of his arse will be when Arthur pushes into him later. Merlin swirls his tongue around Arthur's shaft and sinks lower, moaning as if he's been presented with the most delicious morsel, and that does it—when Arthur can be tricked into thinking that Merlin's actually enjoying it, wanting it for himself and not just indulging the spell inside of him.

From the corner of his eye Arthur can see Merlin’s hand moving rhythmically to the pace of Merlin’s strokes and licks, and he knows Merlin’s fingering himself, opening himself up for Arthur. Arthur’s dick twitches at the thought, and he wants to kick himself hard; he despises how his body responds in the most predictable, banal way. He backs away from Merlin, leaving a long trail of precome mixed with saliva stretching between them.

Merlin stays with his mouth open, breathing fast and shallow. He’s burning up with fever. His eyes are glassy, and Arthur knows in a moment he’ll be too out of it to even respond.

“Lie back,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for Merlin to comply. He lines up the blunt end of his cock to Merlin’s hole and thrusts, wincing, because there’s not enough time to find the lube. He looks up to see Merlin biting his lip.

“Fuck. Let me get some—“

But Merlin thrusts up hard, not allowing him to finish, and Arthur lets him, resigned. He spits on his hand and rubs it into his cock, around the edge of Merlin’s rim, hoping it’ll mix with the lube Merlin must have used earlier, before he came over here.

He pushes in again then, and when he bottoms out, heat pools inside of his belly, making his body feel alive. Some inner force surges through him, spreading through his veins like liquid fire, and Arthur gasps, dizzy with sudden want. He's always wondered how it feels for Merlin when the spell is sated, how good it must be if Arthur can feel the shadow of it like this. He grips Merlin's hips and picks up the pace, and for a moment the only sound in the room is the fast slap-slap of skin. Merlin has his head thrown back, lips slightly parted, and that odd expression on his face he always gets whenever he's waited too long and then has Arthur inside of him. It's as if Merlin's not here, but maybe drifting in some other, magical space, blissed out and yet full of pain at the same time.

Arthur doesn't usually do this anymore, as it's not necessary for Merlin to come too, but he wraps his hand around Merlin's hard cock and strokes to the rhythm of his thrusts. Merlin's eyes flutter open, and Arthur inhales sharply because he wasn’t prepared to look into Merlin's eyes; he can't hold his gaze, even blurry and darkened with desire.

"Merlin," he starts, not sure what he wants to say. Words like "my" and "love" push to Arthur's tongue and he averts his face, breaking the connection of their gazes. He swallows hard, taking the words with him. It's good that his body has memory of its own and keeps thrusting. Soon he's overwhelmed with the need to keep going. He feels Merlin pulsing in his hand, his arse clenching around Arthur's cock, and when Arthur looks down to see the seed spilled on the pale skin of Merlin's stomach, glistening and warm, he shudders and comes, letting himself moan out loud as he pushes hard into Merlin just a few more times.

After, he leans down on his arms with his head low, almost touching Merlin's forehead; their bodies are close and still joined, lips open as if for a gentle kiss. But then he rights himself, pushing swiftly up and out of Merlin, all sticky from the come that’s oozing slowly from Merlin's hole. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed and pushes his hands into his hair. It feels dirty under his fingertips.

There's a soft brush of Merlin's fingers on Arthur's back, as if Merlin's stroking him lightly, and Arthur startles, his heart jumping. He doesn't dare move because this is something that they don't do, not anymore. But the touch is gone as fast as it appeared and Arthur sighs, looking behind his shoulder at Merlin.

Merlin is stretched on the bed with his eyes closed, his features smoothing out as his body absorbs Arthur's seed. There are still light tremors visible in Merlin's twitching fingertips and lips, but the fever is passing, and color is slowly returning to Merlin's pallid cheeks.

Arthur gets up and leaves Merlin like this, allowing him to cherish this rare moment of peace in his body, when the curse is sated and sleepy enough for Merlin to feel like himself for a moment.

In the bathroom Arthur starts wiping himself with a wet cloth but it's useless; he'll be able to smell Merlin on him for hours. So he sighs and steps inside the shower. There's something glorious and soothing about the hot spray of water, and no one can see or hear him when he allows himself to cry. Soon enough he's calm and collected again, all traces of the weak man he is trickling down the drain along with the last of the aloe-scented soap.

He wipes himself dry, thinking of the patterns on the towel. How on earth did he come to possess a crazy-patterned, colorful fabric? And probably Merlin bought it when they were still together, before the curse, before everything turned hostile and bitter. He drops the towel to the floor.

Arthur's feet leave little wet traces on the hardwood, and his hair still drips water as he goes back to the bedroom. He expects the bed to be empty, since Merlin usually dresses up and leaves as soon as he can—no goodbyes, and no lingering for any reason. So Arthur stops dead when he sees Merlin curled up on the bed, sleeping soundly.Arthur should probably wake him, as Merlin will hate himself for falling asleep here. But Merlin looks so safe and peaceful like this Arthur doesn’t have the heart to. For a moment he considers going to the sofa, but his new furniture is useless for resting, so different to the soft purple couch he once owned with Merlin. So he lies next to Merlin on the bed and covers them both with a blanket, since Merlin's all tangled on top of the sheets.

*

Arthur wakes up to Merlin shuffling around, gathering his clothes in the light of his mobile screen.

"Merlin," he mumbles.

"Sorry," Merlin says. His voice sounds groggy and dull. "I didn't mean to wake you up." He chuckles but it sounds even more off. "I didn't mean to fall asleep in here in the first place." There's disdain in Merlin's voice, a cold hatred that makes Arthur's anger rise up all of a sudden.

"Do I really disgust you so much that falling asleep in my bed is the worst thing that can happen to you?"

He can see Merlin's head snap up in the shadows.

"What? No--"

"I remember when you felt perfectly comfortable sleeping with me." Arthur spits it out before he catches himself. They never talk about the time before the curse, even if Arthur can never stop thinking about it.

"Arthur—" Merlin starts, and he sounds so full of pity or regret that Arthur can't stand it.

"Just go already," he says, and turns around with his face to the wall, waiting for Merlin to leave. He exhales only when he hears the sharp click of the front door. It must be morning already, five probably, judging by the sounds of the sleepy city beginning to rouse outside of the window. A trash lorry passes by, and gradually a few more cars join the buzz of the road.

Arthur watches the grey dawn dance in geometric patterns on the ceiling, and he thinks they match those on the towel discarded on the bathroom floor. He wonders if Merlin would see the connection and then turns on his stomach, irritated, because it doesn't matter what Merlin would think. His pillow smells like Merlin though, and it’s making everything so much worse. And maybe yeah, it is a big deal that Merlin slept here, because apparently now Arthur is even more fucked up than he usually is, and what if the curse has somehow gotten stronger and Merlin will have to come here every two weeks or maybe even more often? How will Arthur survive this if he can’t function each and every time Merlin sneaks out like a thief? He pushes his face deeper into the pillow and stops breathing for as long as he can, until the pressure in his lungs is too much and he has to inhale deep and fast. The air tastes like defeat.

He gives up on sleep and drags himself to the kitchen to put a kettle on. The oven blinks 5:47 and Arthur grumbles because he’d hoped to get some sleep this weekend. He’s pouring milk in his tea when he hears the low tapping on the door again. He spills the milk and curses. His heart goes thump-thump-thump because that must be Merlin; no one else would call at this hour. His brain supplies a zillion ideas why Merlin’s here again, all of them horrid, like the curse getting so bad that Merlin needs Arthur’s seed again after only few hours and—Jesus--there’s no way Arthur can do this. By the time he’s at the door Arthur convinces himself that Merlin must have left something important behind, and this is why he’s back.

Merlin looks good when Arthur opens the door and Arthur exhales in relief. Not the spell then. He’s carrying a paper bag and a cup of coffee.

“Can I come in?”

If Arthur could reach out and caress Merlin’s sheepish smile he would. He’s missed Merlin smile so much. He can’t even remember the last time he saw it. He opens the door wider.

“Of course.”

The light in the kitchen seems a bit too bright and cheerful for a six a.m. conversation, but on the other hand, the kitchen was always Merlin’s favorite place—he’d stay here tapping on his laptop or reading one of his weird French comic books while Arthur cooked them dinners and breakfasts.

Merlin folds and unfolds the edge of the paper bag.

“What’s in it?” Arthur asks, sitting opposite Merlin, thinking it feels a little bit like an interrogation.

“Muffins.” Merlin smiles and looks down. “Well, a muffin for me and a donut for you. I thought you’d like your usual, although I don’t understand how anyone could prefer a donut to a chocolate chip muffin.”

Arthur smiles too. His head is swimming. Maybe from the lack of sleep and the emotional roller coaster of the last few hours, but maybe because this is the most he and Merlin have said to each other during the last two years that’s not related to the curse.

Arthur holds his hand out. “Well,” he says raising an eyebrow. “Give it to me!”

Merlin gets powdered sugar on his fingers when he hands over the donut, and Arthur moans a bit around the pastry while he watches Merlin lick the sugar coating off his fingers. “S’good.”

And Merlin smiles again, but this time he looks up and his eyes are blue, so blue—Arthur’s forgotten how blue they are. “You don’t disgust me,” he says. “Do _I_?”

“What?”

“Do I disgust you?” The muffin Merlin’s taken out of the bag lies in front of him, and Merlin’s playing with the wrapper, letting the crumbs fall on the table.

“No,” Arthur says, feeling like this is a question he needs to answer properly. “You never disgust me.”

“Even when I’m writhing like a bitch in heat, snotty and whiny and all?” And here’s the hatred in Merlin’s voice again and, oh God, Arthur’s read it all wrong (and how could he have been so stupid?), because it’s so obvious it’s not directed at him at all—this is Merlin hating his own guts so hard, feeling ashamed so much he must be burning inside.

“You know you don’t.”

Merlin’s features school into something thin and grey. He lets his gaze drop, and when he speaks it’s barely audible. “Even when I went with others to check if the curse would hold? Even when I pushed you to do the same?”

Arthur swallows and looks down, too. His donut is half-eaten, sugar spilled all over the table. “Even then.”

Somewhere in the apartment Arthur’s mobile trills, and Arthur shakes his head because he must have forgotten to switch the alarm off. He waits until the sound stops, then reaches out to take Merlin’s hand in his, sticky from the sugar. Merlin’s skin is soft and warm, and Arthur has this sudden desire to place his cheek inside of Merlin’s palm and fall asleep like this.

“In sickness and in health, Merlin,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers, turning his hand up to entwine his fingers with Arthur’s.

“I’m sorry, too.” Arthur means it. He’s sorry Merlin has to endure it; he’s sorry he has to be a part of it; he’s sorry for the words he should have said to Merlin back when they still had a chance, and sorry for all the lost time.

“Do you still love me?” Merlin asks.

“We shouldn’t have touched that artifact. But for me—for me it changed nothing. There’s always been only you for me.”

And when Merlin still waits expectantly, Arthur smiles. “Of course I still love you, you idiot I’ve never stopped loving you.”

It’s bright and sunny when they crawl into the bed again, building a nest out of all the blankets and pillows against the light. Arthur wraps himself over Merlin’s back, and lets Merlin slip his cold feet between Arthur’s legs. He breathes in Merlin’s sleepy scent and tightens his grip around Merlin’s body just in case he’s dreaming.

 _Fuck the curse_ , he thinks. After all, how bad can it be to have to bugger Merlin once in a while? As long as this isn’t a dream, as long as Merlin’s still there when Arthur wakes up, all is well.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this you might want to give this amazing one a chance: "Continua" by Roamer http://archiveofourown.org/works/479916
> 
> The trope and setting are similar and the story is bloody gorgeous. One of my faves of all time (perhaps I should even consider mine a tribute to Roamer's ;)


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